Tag Archives: street

Sep23

Spice of Life

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My grandmother lost her sense of smell the day she was hit by a taxi in the middle of a crowded Athens street. The man drove her home, left her on her couch, and closed the door behind him, taking a part of her with him. We thought that is was a temporary loss, something that would come back with time; but time only brought days and deepened wrinkles, keeping what the man took to itself.

This was always a huge source of sadness for my grandmother. Smell was her favourite sense. After that, she always said that food did not taste the same, rooms did not carry the same memories, hugs did not feel the same. A part of life was lost the moment the car touched her body.

As I am sitting here, my eyes closed, taking in all the smells from the shop, all I can see is her face. The blend of smells is flooding me with memories, one stronger than the next, and for a moment I feel like I am back in her embrace, a feeling I have not experienced since she died 4 years ago.

I open my eyes and I look around me. I am in the middle of a sea of colours, of a sea of smells. It is not the smells that remind me of her, it is my overwhelming use of the sense that does. The absolute joy that can come with a nice smell, the gut-wrench that comes with a bad one, the act of smelling milk before drinking eat, deep inhales over a rose tea, quick sniffs with squinting eyes when walking inside the house and smelling warm food.

It is amazing how the spice shop in Notting Hill wakes up these memories inside me without the sadness that could be attached to them. It is almost a celebration of these events, instead of pure reminiscing. The shop is a mini portal into the world of senses, with hundreds of different spices, products and recipes. If variety is the spice of life, then the spice shop personifies that.

Minutes later, I go out on the rain, with some Greek Giros spice, and two chilli chocolates (original and orange). The rain soaks up my paper bag as I wait for the bus, but I still feel a warmth inside me. The warmth intensifies with the first bite of the chilli chocolate, with the most unusual taste explosion I’ve ever experienced (definitely one of my favourite chocolates so far).

I smile; my grandmother would have liked this I think, and I take a deep breath in, welcoming the smell of rain, damp soil, damp clothes, people, tears, loss, and everything in between.

Love,

G

Aug27

Another London at Tate Britain

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London is one of the most colourful places to live in. Even if you are in the centre of the city, surrounded by the grey buildings, the navy-blue suits, and the metallic frames that hold everything together, you will be able to spot a bright yellow frame sticking out, a red dress rushing down the tube escalators, or a purple hair framed face reading the Evening Standard in a crowded bus.
London is a colourful city not for the geography, but for the people in it. Londoners are intense marks on the city canvas; multicoloured dots, straight lines, and forceful brush strokes, every Londoner is a reflection of light, a shade of colour.

This is why I am now standing in the middle of the exhibition, eyes wide open with surprise, lips parted, as if I am about to say something; nothing comes out.
You see, I have just entered the Another London Exhibition in Tate Britain, where more than 40 photographers captured life in the Capital on film. The only thing is the film is black and white, a form I absolutely adore, but did not expect to see in this space. And it is not just one or two pictures; the whole exhibition is a monochrome sea of city life.

However, from the second shot, I realise why. The pictures have the common quality of a frozen moment in time, a single second taken from the everyday. They portray London as the dynamic metropolis it is, richly varied and full of contrast, seen through a different angle.

Each photographer seemed to have a very different relationship with London; from fleeting visits as a tourist, or a journalist, to the unique view of a refugee or a permanent resident, each lens documents a different story. The diversity of the people behind the camera results in a depiction as diverse as the city itself, a jigsaw that seems puzzling unless you are part of it.

I have to say that my favourite was the seventh room, where British subcultures started being documented. Neil Kenlock‘s looks at immigrant Britain, Karren Knorr and Oliver Richon‘s get immersed in Punk Culture, Leonard Freed looks at Jewish Communities, and Marketa Luscacova, Mario de Biasi and Al Vanderberg look at the styles of Londoners.

Marfine Franck‘s look at older people is very touching, as is Lutz Diller‘s social documentation. Indeed, there are moments where the class system is captured, like Robert Frank, Irving Penn, and Wolfgang Suchitzky, capturing the lives of the poor and the affluent on the same strip of film.

Then, you have the alternative images. Dorothy Bohm provides an eerie imagery with her pictures of London after the bombing in the war, that comes close to the mystical images of Sergio Larrain. Ernst Haas produces pictures that are deliberately out of focus, Hannes Killian tries to capture movement, and Herbert List develops his own photographic language (photographia metalifisica), looking at dream states with double exposures, portraying a surrealistic view of a familiar city.

The poster of the exhibition is a picture by Bruce Davidson, of a girl holding a kitten on the sidewalk of a busy street, both looking lost, both found by each other. It is interesting to see how Davidson says that he has made several attempts to track down the mystery girl, all unsuccessful.

And to me, this is the magic of London. The fleeting moment. The here today, gone tomorrow nature of the city. The meaning that a picture holds, as it is a shot of something that will not be the same tomorrow. The ephemera caught on a screen, light translated to digits, fingerprints of a visitor that came and left. When I go to exhibitions, I don’t want to take a picture of the work; I want to capture the visitor with the work. I want to observe that moment when the image on the wall becomes a part of the person standing in front of it. A memory to be kept or discarded. A moment.

Inge Morath said that

‘[when I came to London] the world around me seemed to be filled with things that wanted to be photographed. I had finally discovered my own way to express what interested or obsessed me in a way with which I could live.’

And to me, this is London, this is art, this is photography. This is the everyday.

Love,

G

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Jul30

Minding the Gap

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The couple next to me is making a list on the back of a receipt. They look like they are in a hurry, the girl looking at the boy for reassurance, the boy looking at the list for an escape.

I am sitting at EAT. I just finished my lunch, and am now relaxing next to the window reading my book. The door is open, and the cold wind is rushing in, leaving the sunshine outside.
I had an orange juice. I need the vitamins. I am so tired. I had a lot of sleep, but my eyelids still feel heavy. It is all about perspective. I sleep more and feel more tired. It is all about perspective.

I am walking the fine line between content and stressed. A lot of things have changed in the past month -even in the past week. Have you ever experienced the kind of relief that will not allow you to be happy? The kind of relief that seems almost impossible; almost out of place?
I am so used to seeing my day as a list, that I forget the heading. Life. Living it. Not completing tasks, but experiencing moments.

I walked through a park today; I passed a patch of daisies, a full rubbish bin and a dog carrying a branch. I reached the road, and saw a gap between two buildings across the street. Everyone was walking past it, not paying attention to how wonderfully out of place it was. And then I noticed over the gap, how the wall of another building was taken over by a green moss; my heart skipped a beat. It was so beautiful, so unexpected, beauty of the world that stays hidden in plain sight. Looking at a gap should not only be about taking note of what is missing; it should be also be about finding out what is already there.

I sigh; the couple next to me have finished their list, and they look content; I am content too, even though my list is far from over.

Love,

G

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Jul2

Being Greek

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My skin is now tanned. My eyes carry a sadness around the corners, and I have the distinct feeling that I have trapped a breath in my chest, that I can’t seem to be able to breath out.
Last week, i had to visit my home country, as I needed to attend two funerals. I am Greek. I grew up in the hot, buzzing streets of Athens. People around me walked slow, talked fast, argued loudly and laughed louder. They gathered in the squares, with tea lights roped on the trees over them, the pavement cooling down under the night sky, children talking to each other, adults talking about each other, traditional music in the background for the older ones and foreign music in the foreground for the younger ones. Later we would go to the open-air cinema, eating a cheese-pie and coca cola from the can, reading the subtitles under the well groomed Hollywood faces.
I felt the sun kissing my face in the long summers, I run in the olive fields and dived in the crystal blue seas. I had this constant smell of sunscreen, and my skin was always salty, my hair always wet and my bathing suit always on. I would pick figs from the neighbour’s tree, and eat them under its shade. I smelt feta cheese roasting in the oven, fresh bread on the bakery windows, cheese and spinach pies resting on the kitchen counter.
Before mobile phones made me instantly available, my parents knew they could always find me in the city centre. I spent hours in Eleftheroudakis bookshop, walking down the isles, touching the spine of every book, eyes widening at the sight of unusual images, interesting titles, exotic covers. I would then make my way down to Metropolis, a CD and later DVD shop, and make countless wish-lists. I would walk down Monastiraki, Sintagma, Ermou, stopping in front of the shop windows, looking at the things in the shop, the people in the shop, the exchange of money for objects of desired happiness.
I don’t want to give an idea of false perfection. All of the above always happened behind a smoke screen, kindly provided by the 20pack of cigarettes of the person next to you. Compulsive smoking, innate judgement, and an unjustifiably rigid sense of morality. Anything that deviated from the norm has to be hidden; if not hidden, punished; and if not punished, at least humiliated. Men can (and often are encouraged to) cheat, personally and professionally, as long as they are white heterosexuals with an embedded sense of entitlement. Homosexuality is ridiculed and hidden, represented as a thinly tolerated anomaly that should be buried away from public view, varying from a moustache to a full blown wife and children.
The military is mandatory, meaning that you have to give a year of your life to stay in a camp in the far end corner of the country – unless your family has political connection, and can secure you an office position three blocks away from your semi-detached house. Indeed, family connections are everything: it is the only way to get a job, progress in it, make any kind of money and then hide it from the tax office. Tax evasion is a skin cell of the Greek epidermis; why do something right, when you can do it quick? What is the greater good if it’s not good for you?
The younger generation is sitting in the squares, having coffee and complaining about life. A small percentage will stay on the complains, and will not move into action. If you can stay at your parents home, file a few papers in their work place and have enough pocket money to pay you club entry, then why skip the sports pages for the Job classifieds? However, a big percentage is looking for jobs in their chosen field, with degrees from Greek and foreign Universities gathering dust in their bedroom drawers as they are knocking on doors that are locked and bolted. without a strong connection, a diploma is just worth as much as the paper that it is printed on. And then, if your parents can not really support you, what?
There is a small tinge of racism, especially towards Albanians, Pakistanis and Nigerians, economic refugees that are accused for stealing jobs from the Greeks; jobs that a lot of Greeks would consider beneath them, or too badly paid. Even so, extreme left parties have gained momentum, with a range of accusations against them.
All of these viewpoints are not shared by every Greek; but unfortunately, the overwhelming majority would nod acceptingly with most of the above, if not all. I don’t. I loved growing up in Greece, but once I did, I was unsure about how I felt in it. I did not really fit in all of the times, in most ways. Even though I was a piece of the puzzle, my edges seemed slightly different. I did not fit the profile, the macho tough bike-loving, sports-playing, cigarette in one hand and coffee on the other kind of person. And on top of that, I was not ashamed of who I was, of how different I was. I always smiled when people told me I needed to fit in; why be happy, when you can be normal?
And all that said, I still feel Greece as a beloved part of me. My home is London now, and I moved away physically and emotionally as well. My feelings for Greece is a bittersweet traditional desert, served in a crowded square, under tea lights and smoking bystanders.
So, every time that I tell someone I am Greek, I am telling him all of this in a simple statement of origin. I am telling him of my pride and my shame, of my good and bad memories, of the ups and lows. In the past couple of years, every time I tell a person I am Greek, I get a canned response that is bound to include the word crisis in it, when all i do is just state my origin.
Greece and Greeks are not just the poster boys of a country in a dire economic state. It is a nation that live its good as intensely as its bad, its happiness as tragically as its sadness, smiling at the face of danger, raising a glass to what was instead of what will be. Most of the places I described in my good memories are now closed, bankrupt and covered in angry graffitis. Most of the negative attitudes I mentioned are changing, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worst. I walked in the city centre, and it was empty. The stores closed. Someone wrote on the window of a vacant store: a city that is burning; a flower that is blooming.
My tan will fade away, but I am not sure if my sadness for my country will. All I can do is hope, for change, for light, for the younger generation to have something more that a tanned skin to remember their country by.

Love,

G

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Jun19

Made of Brick

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Today I walked in a straight line; from A to B. I dotted the i, crossed the t, went for a run and stood still. I drank a light ginger beer out of a can, and a bitter latte out of a glass. I walked with my hands in my pockets. I looked left; then right; then crossed the street.
I am now in a coffee shop, standing next to a row of 6 portraits. We heard the same CD twice, and the songs sounded different the second time around.

I don’t know it yet, but I will spend my afternoon walking in Brick Lane. I will be stopping every 5 minutes to take a picture of something on a wall, or of someone taking a picture of something on a wall. I will feel the sun on my face, the breeze passing through my fingers as I try to grab it. I am holding a sigh that I will shed as I move around the sidewalk. The air in Brick Lane is electric, the oxygen somehow different; a creative hub, the remnants of the weekend’s mayhem alive throughout the week. Fashion, food, art & music, an intoxicating Mecca for the now and the then. I will walk and find myself smiling. I will take my iPhone out, put The Best of Morissey on, and explore until the sun goes to sleep and the black London sky fills my heart with calmness.

For now, I am unwrapping my complimentary biscuit, and look out of the window. People walk, ride, drive, speed up and slow down, think of the day they had and the day they will have tomorrow, talk on the phone, type on their touchscreens, inhale and exhale and periodically look around with purpose, the goal to move from A to B; to dot the i and cross the t; to catch up with the earth as it revolves under and around them.

And I wander.

Love,

G

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Apr30

Gilbert and George: the LDN pictures

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The weather seems as undecided as I feel today. Clouds of rain are separated from bursts of sunshine with an invisible thread, that I seem to be pulling every time I decide to walk outside.
I am now sitting in a table in the middle of a really crowded Starbucks. I got a skinny latte and a blueberry muffin, and spent the first 10 minutes absent-mindedly taking it apart as I was focusing on the large window; focusing on what was behind it, who was behind it. Everyone slowing their pace when the sun came out; speeding up when the first signs of rain appeared; dancing awkwardly around pools of water on the street. A choreography that kept me hypnotised, a performance that no doubt would be taking place in every London street.

Thinking of the city makes me shiver. Londoners are a different breed, living in a different rhythm, with different rules. Highly competitive, extremely creative, moments appearing like fireworks; sudden bursts of light, and if you don’t know where to look, by the time you turn your head, they are gone.

One of these firework moments for me was when I first saw a Gilbert and George piece. I was walking in Tate Modern, lost in my world, notebook in one hand, camera on the other. I passed the door to the hall where it was hanging, and stopped; turned around; and just stood there. Moments later, I found myself standing in front of it hypnotised. I did not know exactly why; I still don’t. But it had this Gilbert and George quality of waking a very strong emotion inside you, behind your heart, a feeling of unease and excitement blending in the same exhale. I left without taking a picture of it, just with its title scribbled in my notebook: Red Morning Trouble.

A few months ago, I did a piece on HIV AIDS day awareness. As I was writing it, I was trying to think of the image that I would use for my posts. I stood in front of the screen, closed my eyes,and saw the picture. I grabbed my jacket and my iPhone, took the first bus and rushed through the maze of modern art, to stand in front of it and take a shot.

Last week, in one of these rare moments that I had the time to sit on the sofa, with a hot cup of echinea tea, I was leafing through Time Out London, scanning through the art listings, when I saw it. White Cube. Gilbert & George: London Pictures. Jacket, iPhone, first bus.

I first have to address the White Cube space. The first look upon arrival forces you to stop on your tracks, if not take a step back. Looking like it materialised out of thin air in the middle of the busiest point in London, it appears to be a part of a David Lynch movie. Minimal, sharp, slick, and immensely impressive, there could not be a better space to house the exhibition. I walked in, greeted by a lovely gallery assistant, and walked in the space.

Gilbert and George are pioneers in what they do. They were present in the birth of experimental art, art film, and conceptual art. They are universally known for their large scale structural pieces, placing pictures in symmetrical frames, and constructing a larger picture out of many, smaller ones. They use primarily black and white tones, embellishing the backgrounds with red and yellow, and the foreground with neon (or sometimes pale) prints of the artists themselves in various different poses.

Their work in the White Cube follows on the same path. However, when I stepped on the ground level of the gallery, I felt a tingling sensation. This work was similar, but different altogether. I sat on the wooden bench in the middle of the room, and looked at the space in front of me, next to me, behind me. I knew there was something thumping on the back of my mind, but I could not really understand it. And then I went to the lower ground of the gallery, a vast space filled with more London pictures. I was overwhelmed. The work had the kind of raw power that I felt when I saw their first piece, but this one was completely different. And then I knew why it had this effect on me.

I have a background in psychology, and more specifically, research. I love quantitative and qualitative designs, theorising and disproving, analysing and explaining. I love that we feel that we can truly understand, or predict human behaviour. I love the complexity and simplicity of the human psyche, and the glimpses you get by trying to analyse it. And while I was sitting in front of the work, I felt that Gilbert and George tried to do just that; offer an insight in the different aspects of their subject’s mind. Their subject? London.

For almost 6 years, Gilbert and George painstakingly gathered exactly 3,712 newspaper posters (the ones seen next to your local newsagent, used to give you a small but enticing snippet so that you buy the whole paper), and then grouped the titles in subjects, that then fell under categories. This meant that the size, title, and even subject was defined from the category itself (for example, with alphabetical or numerical classifications) -instead of the artists making am aesthetic decision. By doing that, their art making transcends ‘art making’, and provides a depiction of a reported reality: a gloomy, violent, impulsive, sorrowful, but always hopeful London. London, and the artists themselves, are the backdrops in portraits of humanity, taxonomy, and the never ending effort to classify, and understand the human factor.

However, there is another truly interesting bit for the psychology/linguistics nerds. Gilbert and George do not only look at the phrases and words behind the main news, but the content and classifications that are implied under them. For example, they visit the concept of gay and/vs straight, often classifying subjects under one or the other. The reason why this fascinated me is that this underlines the divisive and often irrelevant use of the adjective ‘gay’ as an intended insightful description of an act or person (something that lately has been debated about social issues like adoption, or marriage).

The exhibition runs simultaneously in the 3 White Cube galleries ( Bermondsey, Hoxton Square and Mason’s Yard), and is housing all 292 of the London Pictures. However, if you can not make the trip to the galleries, there is an amazing catalogue documenting all of them, accompanied with an essay by Michael Bracewell that was published by Hurtwood Press.

I left the exhibition feeling lighter. I just felt like I read someone else’s love letter for a person I love too. And it is the kind of all-round love, the love of the good, the bad, the ugly, and the unimaginably beautiful.

Love,

G

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Feb5

First London Snow

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I am sitting on my couch under a mountain of blankets with a family-sized mug of ginger and apple tea. The man on the screen is selling the best piece of jewellery he has seen in his long career, the channel stuck on a telemarketing studio covered in salmon pink and blue.

I can see from the window the snow covering the streets of London like a blanket, people running cautiously, walking slowly, holding hands and exhaling hot clouds of air.

It is the first snow of the year. I saw it from a heart-shaped smudge in the misty windows of the bus home, walked through it with my eyes closed, deep inhales of the crisp night air. Opened my eyes and saw footprints on a carpet of crystallised water. Smiled. Went home. Kettle, blanket, remote control.

Have a lovely night.

Love,

G

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Jan20

Under the trees of Cleaver Square

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Cleaver Square is a paradox. Sandwiched between two busy streets, it provides a sense of eerie calm rarely seen outside of a Hitchcock movie. Shielded from the outside world with perfectly aligned houses and shaded by tall trees, the square is a regular host to boules games, providing the perfect soundtrack for a peaceful afternoon: the sound of the metal balls hitting the ground; the air rushing through the leaves; the sound of hurried footsteps on the gravel. Just sit on a bench, and observe.

Observe how it can become a social hub, hosting fantastic street parties (like the one for the royal wedding -last picture-); or celebrating the Cleaver Square Fete, a block celebration with live music, great food, and smiley neighbours.

Take a look at the art crowd in between classes from the nearby City and Guilds Art School, talking about life, death, art, and the daily drama that comes with being a tortured artist.

Sit still and see how it is adapting to the world all the time, with a carpet of leaves in the autumn, a snowy pavement in the winter, and a cool shade in the summer.

I am not saying that it is essential London viewing; however, if you are in the area, and you need some time alone, or a quick chat with a friend, or to just lose yourself in the presence of strangers, then I would strongly suggest that you pick a bench, take a deep breath, and open your eyes. You will see something very familiar, but altogether different.

Love,

G

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Nov20

Being Happy-Slapped in the middle of London: ‘you are better than this’

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This blog is all about finding the magnificent in the everyday; celebrating the moment. Turning things around and finding moments that make you happy.

What happens when things that make you unhappy end up finding you?

I organised a completely different post for today. However, on my way to Costa (my café of choice for endless scribbling), I saw a group of youth coming towards me. When the first person passed, I felt a blow on my head – not painful, but surprising. The others broke in laughter, and were trying to see an expression on my face: anger, surprise, hate, fear, or whatever would satiate their expectations. I gave them nothing, and kept walking.

The phenomenon of ‘happy slapping’ is supposedly a dead fad, however I have saw two different events in the last year: today, being hit with an oversized pillow in the middle of Soho; 7 months ago, when someone screamed in a tube corridor, while his friends were filming the reactions of the unfortunate passers-by.

I am not going to comment about the people who actively scare or hurt others for their own entertainment (check the urban dictionary definition for a more humorous view on them). However, I will talk about the effect their behaviour might have to the unfortunate victim.

When you are already having a bad day, things like that can make it even worse. And I will not hide the fact that for a moment there, it made me feel really low. I was walking, and I could actually feel my eyes well up. A part of me wanted to turn back, and tell them how stupid they are -however this would not solve anything, and could get me hurt-; another part wanted to abandon the whole coffee and writing endeavour, and just go back home. Something mind-numbing will be on TV. I could just settle for that, get the day over, and wake up feeling better tomorrow.

And then I stopped; took a deep breath; and said to myself ‘you are better than that’.

I am sitting in Costa now, and I decided to treat myself to the magnificent mini muffins (if you have not tried them yet, run in your nearest Costa NOW and get them!) and a large Creme Brûlée latte. Sia’s ‘I Go to Sleep‘ is playing, and i am typing away on my iPad. I am writing because I know there are 6000 followers, and just in case this happens to them, they will know they are not alone. I fought the urge to keep everything cheery happy-go-lucky, and be truthful, as I promised on my earlier posts. And most importantly, because even now, after a difficult week, after an unfortunate incident, I know that there are still people and things in my life that can make the everyday a bit more… magnificent.

Love,

G

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